


Five times Narcissa saves Hermione, and one time she doesn't

by ToujoursNoir



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Enemies to ?, F/F, Malfoy’s mum is a BAMF, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pre-War and War, This was supposed to be a one-shot I don’t know what happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToujoursNoir/pseuds/ToujoursNoir
Summary: Hermione Granger has run out of luck.And this time, no knowledge she’s memorised; no spell she’s learned; no logical reasoning she’s practised could save her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	1. Hush

Hermione Granger has run out of luck. 

And this time, no knowledge she’s memorised; no spell she’s learned; no logical reasoning she’s practised could save her. 

She isn’t challenged by potion riddles, secret chambers, or the fabrics of time — all of which seem like child’s play to her now. 

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger is running from fellow _human beings_ who are actively _hunting_ her. No mythical creature; no bewitched objects — very real wizards and witches made of flesh and bones, bleed the same colour she does, and have _decades_ on her.

Who also know far more than she; hold a plethora more spells; and are driven by prejudice, hatred, and cruelty. 

Who want to do to her what they are doing to the Robertses. 

And so she does the only thing she can: what she, Harry, and Ron push each other to do in the face of impossible odds.

Keep going. 

_“Keep that big bushy head down, Granger,” sneered Malfoy._

If that _bully_ Draco Malfoy thinks his words would somehow trip them up, it would appear he’s learned _nothing_ since they met on the train. His schadenfreude only works to fuel her steps, her determination to escape strengthened by the look of his face when his parents get caught.

Her legs start to tire, and she thinks about nothing else but putting one foot in front of the other. Regulating her breaths. Avoiding areas with loud bangs. Making sure the boys are with — 

Where _are_ the boys? 

_Oh for Merlin’s sake._

She recognises Ron’s tall figure among those surrounding a few Veela, with Harry pulling at his sleeve. She turns to head in their direction, when someone — or something — _yanks_ her aside. 

  
  
  
  
  


As she looks up at a masked face, Hermione Granger knows this is it. 

Too many close calls now. Malfoy’s told someone. 

A few spells whizz past them and she spots a hint of blond — _fuck_ it’s Lucius Malfoy. She _knew_ it; knew the _git_ had tipped off his father. Well, his father sure heard about it this time.

But she would be damned if she gives in just like that. She takes a deep breath before opening her mouth — 

— which is promptly covered by a firm hand.

“Mmff!”

“What in _Salazar’s name_ do you think you’re doing?” 

  
  
  


That’s not Lucius Malfoy. It’s low and breathless, but it is definitely the voice of a witch. 

_What?_

She’s jolted out of her shock by the sound of someone approaching them — thinking it’s Harry and Ron, she reaches out, only to be pushed back onto the ground.

“You idiot girl, don’t you know what they’re looking for out there?” The witch whispers harshly, holding her still.

Amidst the quiet, the footfall proves the witch right — the consistent snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves tell her it’s too heavy to be borne by sneakers or made by teenagers. 

There’s also the hyena-like laugh of the wizards. 

“I _know_ they’re around,” says one of them. “She never goes anywhere without Potter and that blood traitor of a weasel.” 

_Focus on something._ Anything, _Hermione._

She starts with the witch’s hand on her knee, feeling the heat that emanates from her palm. And when she hears _Lumos_ from one of the Death Eaters, the weak light reveals manicured nails, intricate patterns of the witch’s wand, and for one second — alert, wide, and striking blue eyes behind that golden mask. 

The grip on her knee tightens. She follows the stare and _sees_ a boot a few steps away from her head. Turning the other direction, she shuts her eyes and thinks about everything but the Robertses. The faint scent of perfume, mixed with perspiration; her ankle that’s starting to _throb_ really hard, she must have sprained it when she fell — 

“Bah, let’s look elsewhere. Maybe there’s some fun left with those muggles.” 

The witch’s sigh of relief mirrors hers. 

She sits up and dusts off the sand from her clothes. Without the distraction, she now feels every bit of the bruise that’s forming on her arm, and the pain that’s shooting up her shin, forcing a gasp from her.

“Where does it hurt?” 

Hermione points to the injury on her foot, and her captor waves her wand over it. Instantly, a chill settles, dissipating the burning feeling along her nerves. 

“Who are you?” she says, and might as well have been talking to the bush. 

The soothing effects of the healing, along with the post-rush of adrenaline, lures her into a lull.

Then she hears her name. 

It’s the boys. 

“Hermione!” Harry, yells, panting. 

“I _know_ she’s here,” Ron says. “This is where we ran into Malfoy. You don’t think he’s —”

“Idiots,” the witch mutters angrily, and Hermione’s nearly got it. The witch is — 

“Go before they alert the entire campsite that Hermione Granger is very much lost and wandering around _alone_.” 

— very annoyed by the boys’ lack of sense, it seems. 

With the same strength that pulled her earlier, she’s pushed _out_ of the bushes and right into the arms of her best friends. 

“Sorry I got distracted,” Ron says sheepishly. “Where have you been?” 

“I was just here, keeping my head down.” 

She doesn’t look back. 

* * *

“But Mrs Weasley,” she begs, trying not to whine, “I need the materials!” 

“Oh Hermione, I don’t know,” Molly Weasley frets, waving her wand distractedly at a sack of potatoes. “Everything’s a bit of a mess right now, and after what happened at the World Cup, I don’t think you should be alone, even if it’s Diagon Alley.

“Why don’t you owl them your order and have it sent to Hogwarts? That way they’ll be right there when you arrive.” 

_Great_. Now she’s going to fall behind without the supplementary reading materials, and the next thing she knows, she’s going to fail her exams, be barred from taking the OWLs next year, have her wand snapped in half — 

And it’s all her fault. 

She thanks Mrs Weasley and heads to the orchard. As the boys — and Ginny — play another round of Quidditch, she flips through _The Standard Book of Spells_ glumly, angry at herself for being distracted by the witch.

And there’s Winky, of course — _how dare_ they treat her that way?

Harry and Ron, eager for an outing, had volunteered to go with her to Flourish and Blotts. She turned it down immediately, citing all the possible reasons for Harry’s scar to start hurting, and none of them good. 

They had left her alone quickly after that. 

  
  
  
  
  


“Oi Hermione, heard you were looking for a date?” Fred and George plop down, flanking her. 

She narrows her eyes at them, her bottom still smarting from their latest experiment. “What do you mean?” 

“Heard mum said something about you losing your memories,” George tuts. “We expected more from the girl who’s in the top of her classes.” 

At her indignant look, Fred stands up and bows. “We, the ever helpful, are here at your service. Just let us know when, and mum’s the word.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to —” 

“Ah ah, there you go again, occupying your brain with the little things. Mum really gave us her word — as long as we go with you.” 

* * *

“Are you _sure_ it can’t wait? Maybe I can pick them up for you tomorrow, once I sort out Arthur’s tasks,” Molly says, tightening the scarf on Hermione. 

“We’re going to be fine, mum,” Fred says, rolling his eyes. “Dad needs you more.”

“Make sure you’re back by four, and don’t let them persuade you to do any — _George!_ ” 

“Sorry, mum!” George rushes them to the chimney, leaving soot all over the carpet — and his mother. “We’ll get more from the shops!” 

  
  
  
  
  


Mrs Weasley’s instincts are right, at least. She casts a water-repelling charm over her books and new quills to protect them from the rain. 

Quality Quidditch Supplies is next. She holds up the list that Ron gave her, hoping the sun will help her decipher his abysmal handwriting.

And sees _her_. 

Or rather, she sees a flash of blond hair before the witch pulls up her hood. 

Looking around to ensure she isn’t watched by anyone, she trails behind the witch. Well made boots hit the cobblestones in a steady pace, while she keeps her steps light, avoiding puddles and little streams. She keeps a safe distance between them, glad she decided to become more physically active after that incident. 

They finally make a turn — right into Knockturn Alley. She leans on the brickwall of the Leaky Cauldron, trying to recall what Harry had told them of his experience before, and debating whether it’s worth putting her safety — and Mrs Weasley’s trust — at risk for someone who may not even be her. 

  
  
  


Decides it is. 

And _oh God_ what is that _thing_ that she nearly bumped into?! And is that _glass eye_ staring at her? It’s no wonder The Weasley children are prohibited from going to this place — Ron would probably make a one-way trip to St. Mungos after seeing one of those giant black spiders. 

She tries to look through the windows whenever the witch drops in, hoping to catch her face. But all she sees are the _vile_ — and yet, oddly fascinating — items. She wonders how long a poisonous candle would take to come into effect, and how…

How is it possible that she managed to lose a witch in _one_ alley. 

She rushes past Borgins and Burkes just in time to see the door to The White Wyvern closing. 

Waits a respectable amount of time.

Slowly pushes open the heavy wooden door.

It’s a contrast from The Leaky Cauldron: empty, and smells _nothing_ like a place that serves copious amounts of alcohol, fried food, and sober up potions. 

In fact, it smells like it has been closed for years. 

She’s certain she saw someone come in, however. She climbs up the staircase, ignoring the wobbling banister and awful _creaks_ of the stairs. As soon as she reaches the top, strong fingers grips her arm on the same spot that’s still bruised from the other night.

She cries out in pain and falls. At least she didn’t sprain her ankle this time. 

The door latches shut and she blinks, willing her eyes to get used to the dark a little more quickly. Pale sunlight streams through a smudged window, revealing the thick layer of dust that coats everything in the room — a few thin mattresses, junk, and more junk. Rainwater starts to drip from the ceiling, sneaking its way to her shoes. 

Her eyes follow the trail of water to the pair of boots, and there she is. 

Narcissa Malfoy, arms crossed and leaning back against the door, looking _slightly_ less like there’s a nasty smell under her nose. At least this time she has ample reason to. Nothing about her fits where they are: not her golden head of hair blessed by the sun; her sleek and impeccable robes; or her features, sharp and regal.

“I —” she stutters. 

Mrs Malfoy raises her eyebrows and _smirks_. 

“The other night, at the campsite,” she says hotly. “It was you?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Miss Granger.”

But — but it can’t be. That wand; those fingers; the blue eyes, coolly fixed on her.

“So you do know who I am!” 

“It’s difficult not to,” Mrs Malfoy drawls, “seeing that my son has been ranting about you since his first day at Hogwarts.” 

“You — you kept me from harm’s way,” she insists. 

“And if I did?” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“And pray tell,” there’s that _bloody_ smirk again, “what is it that eludes the brilliant mind of Hermione Granger?” 

“You —” How is it that whatever Narcissa Malfoy says, even if it seems like a compliment, sounds like an insult?

“Your son had just said you were hunting muggles. He taunted us about it!” 

The hint of amusement disappears from the witch’s face. “And _I_ am to be responsible for every word my son says? Everything he does? 

“Should I hold _your_ parents responsible for laying your hands on him then?” 

She gulps, caught between shame and defiance — the boy may not have deserved a physical attack, but he had _something_ coming.

”You know about it?”

“Don’t look so worried, Miss Granger,” Mrs Malfoy says, waving her wand casually. “He was too embarrassed about it to tell anyone but his mother.” 

“And you still protected me?”

“There you go again, relegating me to little more than ‘ _Malfoy’s mum’_. I have bigger concerns than a schoolyard dispute. Speaking of which, if you have nothing useful to say, I need to be on my way.” 

“But you hate muggles! What you did to the Robertses!” Regret sets in even before she finishes her sentence, but before she can even _think_ about apologising, she’s looking at the face of Narcissa Malfoy up close. 

So close they're sharing breaths. 

“Now _who’s_ the prejudiced one?” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice is low still, but there’s no mistaking the fury in it. “We are all the same to you, are we? Maybe I should have left you there, all _vulnerable_ and _young_ for Mulciber and Rosier.” 

“I — I’m not as young as you think!” 

“Then you won’t mind a few _adult_ facts, hmm? An inebriated group of wizards who thrives on violence and humiliating others, spotting a muggle — and not just _some_ muggle, but the girl who’s helped Potter escape the Dark Lord again and again, brimming with magic any one of us can sense it from afar?” 

“Oh yes, you do have some idea after all,” Mrs Malfoy coos, “You think you would have ended up like that muggle family? A bit of fun, showing off for each other with some parlour tricks?” 

The witch’s tone softens to a whisper, but it does nothing to stop her trembling. “If they had caught you, Miss Granger, what happened to the Robertses would have been your _best_ case scenario.” 

She doesn’t realise she’s stopped breathing until the witch backs off. 

“I’m not scared of you,” she retorts, desperate to prove something. 

“Are you certain?” Mrs Malfoy turns away, seeming to have lost all interest in their conversation. “False bravado only works so well against big bad muggle haters like me.

“You’re better off honing your self-preservation instincts, such as not following dark witches down _Knockturn Alley_ , yes? Lest you taint your pure self by the evil that flows so freely from all of us.” 

She doesn’t hear the door this time. Instead, she’s standing in the middle of Diagon Alley, right beside the Weasley twins. 

“Blimey, where did you learn to sneak up on people like that?” Fred asks. “And what’s happened to you? They didn’t run out of the books, did they?” 

“No,” she says distractedly. “Just bumped into someone — wasn’t the most pleasant encounter.” 

George frowns at that. “Who was it? Do you need us to speak to them?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she reassures them, taking comfort in the protectiveness of the Weasleys. “I probably won’t see them again.” 


	2. Dark

Hands. Hands that have her shoulders in a death grip, holding her down.

She can’t breathe. 

But she’s not immersed in water, and this isn’t a nightmare. 

She isn’t lost in the Department of Mysteries, watching Harry drop from an  _ Avada Kedrava _ . Feeling Ron’s hands slip from hers as he falls from a thestral. Hearing Luna scream from the cruciatus curse. 

The stomping of the centaurs grow closer, angrier. Louder, louder, louder, until her heart wants  _ out _ of her chest to join them. 

  
  
  


She jerks upright, hands outstretched, gasping for air. 

“Hold still, Miss Granger,” a voice, deeper than her father’s, tells her. She knows it — something to do her teeth — but struggles to place it amidst the burning pain  _ everywhere _ . 

“You are in a safe place,” the man says, his tone even and smooth, “you had a reaction to Dolohov’s curse, and reached out to Hogwarts. This is the worst of it. 

“You are safe. Mr Potter is safe. Mr Weasley is safe. Everyone is safe.” 

She makes one more attempt to push through. 

Fails. 

  
  


* * *

Something’s nudging at her arm. Before her muscles could catch up with her brain, a soft nip follows. 

“Mmm Buckbeak, no,” she mumbles. 

_ Buckbea — _

Her eyes open to another pair that’s completely black and looks  _ nothing _ like a human’s. 

Yells in fright.

Someone  _ runs _ into her — someone’s — room. It’s —

“You!” Guess her vocal cords have woken up too. 

And Narcissa Malfoy has the gall to  _ roll  _ her eyes. 

“You, you —” 

“Someday, Miss Granger,” Mrs Malfoy straightens her robes, “we may yet have a conversation that doesn’t start with you repeating ‘you’ or ‘I’. 

“I look forward to then. Meantime, however, please refrain from making me relive the visits to the Shrieking Shack.”

“But — oh god you kidnapped me!” 

“And here I had high hopes for your OWL,” the older witch says and approaches her bed, ignoring how she scrambles away. “Dolohov’s curse may have been strong, but it doesn’t addle memories.

“What do you remember last?” 

She — she was home, having a celebratory dinner with her parents. It’s one of the few occasions they indulge in sugary treats, and she had bitten into a black forest gateau when she started to feel...something. 

And then there were shouts. 

“Apparently you rubbed your galleon, and someone alerted the Headmaster,” Narcissa explains, nodding to Fawkes, now perched at the windowsill. “Severus happened to be with him — just as well, because there was nothing the mediwitches would have been able to do.” 

“I made a full recovery before the term ended!” She argues, trying not to gag from the memory of downing 10 potions day after day.

“You _would_ have made a full recovery,” Narcissa corrects, “if the curse wasn’t as severe as they thought, and more importantly — if you were _actually_ the age they thought you were when they brewed your potions.

“Dark magic affects underage wizards and witches differently.” 

So they know. 

“Do close your mouth, Miss Granger — it’s most unbecoming. Try not to leave your jaw behind when you take your apparition test, will you?”

She shuts it promptly. 

Remembers something.

“And they left  _ you  _ with me?”

“At least I have the grace to not gawp at people,” Narcissa tuts. 

“That’s — they trust you?” 

“Severus trusts me,” Narcissa says, and pretends not to hear the responding scoff. “And he appears to have the Headmaster’s trust.”

“But you — you passed information about Sirius to Voldemort!” she says, eyes darting around the room.  _ Where _ is her wand? 

At that, Narcissa breaks eye contact and busies herself with the potions placed on her bedside table. 

“Lucius and Bella happened to be in the room when I was comforting Kreacher. What happened afterwards was most...unfortunate.” 

She snorts derisively. “How convenient.” 

A bottle hits the table with a  _ thud _ . 

“Let us be clear, Miss Granger,” Narcissa says. “Whether you survive concerns me not. Severus is otherwise...occupied, and as you say in your world, I’m simply paying it forward.

“You, on the other hand, have a choice to make: regain your health or keep going in circles until you drop.” A tray appears on her lap, bearing several potions and the 10 ¾ inches of vine wood. “While your tenacity tells me you will still find a way to reach your friends in the afterlife, I’m afraid I don’t hold them in the same esteem. 

“I sincerely hope the pragmatism shown in the witch who rebelled against Umbridge wasn’t a fluke.” 

  
  
  


She picks up the potions. 

Suppresses her gag reflex. 

Leans back. 

“Where are we anyway?” Apart from her bed and an armchair next to it, the rest of the room is sparse and feels just like their potions classroom. The view from the window, however, indicates lush greenery around them.

“Severus’s other home. Your parents are receiving daily updates on your condition.” 

“Wouldn’t anyone notice you’re...not around?” 

“Lucius is — ,” Narcissa says quietly, “and Draco is on a...field trip of sorts.” 

“That’s nice,” she responds with a yawn, only to widen her eyes in horror after realising what she had just said. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Narcissa says, tucking her wand into her hand and closing her fist around it. 

She slowly nods off. Maybe, just maybe, it will be different this time. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
She never managed to find her copy of  _ Numerology and Grammatica _ , but there isn’t anything she can do now. Dipping her quill into the ink, she settles down to draft her response as text starts to appear on the parchment. 

  * _Describe 5 reasons to pardon a hippogriff that had endangered a student._



She looks around in confusion. Nobody else seems to have any problems — even Neville who had just thrown up his lunch winks at her confidently. She rubs her tired eyes and reads the next question. 

  * _On a scale of -50 to 0, rate your capability to think on your feet. Provide examples wherever relevant._



This can’t be — 

  * _Answer this as if you were under the effects of the veritaserum: should you even be here?_



  
  
  
  


“I need a dreamless potion,” she mutters from under the covers a few days later. 

“It counters the effects of the others,” Narcissa replies without looking up from her book. 

She has been prohibited from reading or practising magic while healing. One day, out of desperation, she had snatched up Mrs Malfoy’s book when the witch left her room. Ready to devour every word, she opens it — 

— to find blank pages after blank pages after blank pages. 

_ That witch!  _

“And the lack of sleep won’t?” she says sullenly. At Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey had been surprised at the lack of side effects from her treatment. She had beamed with pride then, attributing it to her excellent health. 

As she feels every one of them this time, she knows why now. 

And without any distraction, her mind has nothing to do but to curl around and start cannibalising itself.

“Still?” The older witch asks, waving her wand over Hermione’s head. 

_ Yes, still, Mrs Malfoy. Twenty points to Slytherin for your exceptional observational skills. Did you learn that from your empty books?  _

She’s pulled upright — _crap_ does Mrs Malfoy know Legilimency? 

Relief hits her when Narcissa says: “There isn’t anything wrong with your mind. Let’s get you on your feet.” 

Her muscles protest and she groans along with them. “If there isn’t anything wrong with my mind, why can’t I just read instead?” 

“You don’t  _ just _ read, Miss Granger,” Narcissa says, propping her up and leading her to the door. “We tried that for one evening, and I’ve seen less possessed behaviour from witches in need of a good exorcism.

“Giving your mind a rest will improve it, I assure you. You  _ do  _ intend to use it in the future, yes?” 

“It’s hardly going to make a difference,” she mumbles. 

Not quietly enough, apparently. 

“Really, Hermione Granger conceding that she does have limitations after all?” Narcissa gasped mockingly. “Surely you jest.” 

She doesn’t take the bait, focusing instead on the surrounding plants and listing the ingredients as well as the potions that could result from them. Mrs Malfoy transfigures a large bench to a few stools, and they start weeding and harvesting in silence. 

They only stop when the sun is directly over their heads, and Narcissa forces a  _ gallon _ of water on her. It does seem better, feeling her worries shrink and melt away from the hot rays. 

Enough to give Narcissa a different answer when the older witch asks if she wants to go back indoors. 

“I don’t appreciate it when people mock me like that,” she says quietly.

“I wasn’t born into this world,” she gestures at Narcissa. “And I’m not as smart or talented as others claim, so I work extremely hard to catch up.

“Being teased about it undermines my effort and things I’ve given up.”

She shreds the weeds in her basket, picking them apart. “Everyday, as soon as I wake up, I have to prove that I deserve a place in this —  _ your _ — world. And still, it finds a way to show me it’s not enough.” 

“Miss Granger, I do apologise for my actions,” Narcissa says, her tone contrite. 

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s not that.” Narcissa’s curious hum prompts her to continue. 

“The day we were...I begged Harry,  _ pleaded _ for him to check that Sirius wasn’t home. Told them how unlikely it was that Voldemort had Sirius. 

“And then everything happened so quickly — Umbridge, the forest, and Harry got so angry with me that I crumbled.” 

“If I had been firmer, held myself well under pressure” she says, holding back her tears, “Harry would still have his remaining family member.”

“Miss Granger — family or not, Mr Potter still has many people who love him greatly,” Narcissa reassures her. “You knew it was a trap, could have led to your demise, and yet you followed him.” 

“And why do you?” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Why do you follow  _ him _ ?” Narcissa’s expression tells her she’s crossed about a million boundaries, but she stares at the older witch stubbornly. 

“In your mind, is it not possible for people to have different goals, different motivations for doing something?” Narcissa doesn’t back down either. “Or do you actually think all of us are most keen on obliterating muggles — magical or not — off the Earth?” 

She can’t believe this. Is she, is  _ Narcissa Malfoy  _ attempting to — 

“ _ That _ is his  _ goal _ ! What other motivation could you have to follow someone who started a  _ war _ , who — when he was even younger than I — unleashed a serpent to get rid of  _ children _ whose blood he perceived to be impure!” 

“And  _ you _ certainly have never done anything against those who can’t defend themselves, have you?” And just like that, Narcissa has resorted to that tone Hermione absolutely  _ hates _ . 

“What are you talking about?” She retorts hotly. 

“I heard what happened to the Edgecomb girl,” Narcissa replies with a piercing glare. “And with the houseelves. Tricking them into giving up the only thing they’ve known their entire lives, which would certainly have not boded well for them.” 

“They don’t know anything else because you’ve kept them that way! And Marietta, she —”

“Yes, yes, tattled on your merry little band of Dumbledore’s elves,” Narcissa sneers. “And you think  _ you _ are the right person to mete out her punishment — permanent disfigurement? That  _ you _ should make decisions for elves because they  _ don’t know any better _ ?” 

“Are you — are you comparing my actions to a genocidal megalomaniac?” 

“Hardly. I am however, curious how you’re perceived by Ms Edgecomb or, say, the centaurs.” 

How dare she — “That’s nothing compared with what he’s doing!” 

“He wasn’t the subject of our discussion, and as delightful as it was, you are due for your potions,” Narcissa replies coolly. “And maybe it’s time to think about means and ends. Yes, we read muggle authors, too.” 

  
  
  
  
  


“Are you still having trouble sleeping?” 

She shakes her head, avoiding eye contact with the older witch. Even Fawkes had given up on her today, flying off a few hours ago. 

“Oh, come now,” Narcissa cajoles, snapping her book shut. “Lying doesn’t befit you, and neither does being mired in morosity.

“You haven’t been out at all — the night air will do you some good.” 

She shrugs, but does let Narcissa help her out of her bed.

They are immediately hit by a blast of cold air, and somehow she feels more alive than she has since they left Hogwarts. 

Both of them shiver slightly on the bench, borrowing body heat from each other. At Narcissa’s nudge, she gazes upwards and is greeted by a sky full of stars. 

She can’t remember the last time she had looked at the sky without worrying about what she had included or hadn’t included in her essays. 

Realises she doesn’t miss her telescope at all. 

  
  
  


“How come you weren’t named after a star or constellation?” She asks, trying to recall what she had seen in the Black family tapestry.

“I’m special.”

Unable to resist a smile, Hermione hides it with her scarf. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever received a straight answer for that either,” Narcissa says. “The boys received those names probably because they were male. 

“I’m sure my father was most disappointed that Bellatrix wasn’t born one; not that it lowered his expectations of his  _ firstborn _ .” 

She senses Narcissa glancing quickly at her at the mention of her sister, and shows the older witch that she’s content to just listen. 

“All the knowledge in the world and we still don’t know whether it’s magic that leads our names to determine our destiny, or if it’s so because we strive to live up to it,” Narcissa mutters. 

“Bella grew to fight for — well; Dromeda’s love was too large to be confined by our world; and I...remain on the ground.” 

Hermione clears her throat. “Maybe you simply haven’t been discovered, Mrs Malfoy.” 

“Why, coming from you, I may just be convinced that greatness awaits me still,” Narcissa teases. 

“For someone named after Narcissus, your humility certainly knows no bounds.” 

“Anything to get you out of your rut.” 

Hermione doesn’t respond. 

“I realise I was perhaps too harsh with you,” Narcissa says. “After all, you’re still so young. I merely wanted you to think about how you wield that brush when painting others.

“One thing is for certain: your brilliance is undeniable. And sometimes, we all do extreme things to protect those we love.” 

  
  
  
  
  


“What’s this? Another potion?” Hermione takes the mug, letting the steam warm her up. 

“No, just tea.” Narcissa smirks, settling in her armchair. “Heard it works wonders for any occasion, including sleep."

“Now, what do we have here? Ah, yes. 

“Founded around 990 AD by two wizards and two witches: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin, Hogwarts was…”    
  
  
  



End file.
